Go on and kiss the girl

The Green Bay Packers won by 22 points that September Sunday. It was the kind of blowout game that only Packer fans really pay attention to. But I was also paying close attention. Not because I’m a true cheese head, but because I was looking for just about anything else to occupy my brain besides the incessant whirring of anxiety that was fatiguing my soul. 

That most recent stint of constant terror had been plaguing me for two months. I was sleeping minimally and eating even less. As my body shrank, so did my hope. I spent my days at work staring hollowly at my laptop screen, either gearing up for human interaction, or recovering from it. I filled my nights with episodes of The Office and catastrophic thought spirals. It was not the most convenient time to meet your eventual husband. 

We had been dating for a month. 

I described date one as “fine” to inquisitive friends and confided in my sister that I didn’t even want to go on the “stupid” date number two that I had initiated. But a flip switched during date number three, when Joe wore a bright blue shirt that made his matching blue eyes nearly pop off his face. 

Fuuuuuuck, I thought. I’m having feelings. 

I did not and do not prefer feelings. I value logic and intellect, and my anxiety was already hijacking those north stars with all its might. I certainly didn’t need something as stupid as love to also be muscling out my carefully honed sense of reason. 

But it seemed I didn’t have a choice. Joe kept telling dad jokes that made me swoon. He kept asking me questions and listening to my answers and then asking informed follow-up questions. He kept texting me every day and every night, somehow avoiding the smother that I’d always felt from other guys. He kept exuberantly telling me things about cars and I felt myself happily listening to THINGS ABOUT CARS. And he also kept being all good-looking and stuff. It was becoming very annoying. And confusing. How could I be developing such intense adoration for a man at the same time I was rapidly fading away from myself? Was any of this real, or was I wasting my time building something only in response to the unease that was coming to define me? If anxiety ever went away, would there be anything left with Joe?  

While some of this conjecture was valid, it was also a convenient avenue for my anxiety to latch onto this budding relationship. Fortunately, I was present enough to recognize this, so I soldiered on. My body buzzed, and my breath shortened during every drive to see him. When I arrived at our meeting spot, each step toward him was heavy with dreadful and glorious anticipation. During the time we were actually together, I usually settled into a somewhat familiar version of myself, enough to know that he was getting to know (and like) parts of who I actually was. It helped that most of our dates involved alcohol. 

As my generalized comfort with Joe slowly increased, my anxiety desperately searched for an element of our relationship through which to channel its fright. It landed on The Kiss. The first kiss, the second kiss, any kiss. It decided that kissing was the most dangerous thing that could happen to me. Given my history of an eating disorder and overwhelming hatred for and shame of my body, this was unsurprising. 

But here’s the catch: I really wanted to kiss Joe. I knew that I did. I wanted to feel his hands in my hair, his body pressed up against mine. My skin ached for human contact, while my anxiety feared physical touch of any kind. I resented my anxiety’s limitations, rebelling with snuggles on the couch and lingering hugs. But when we ended our dates with those lingering hugs, I still pulled away swiftly, knowing that the faster I got into my car, the more difficult it was to plant one on me. Without the kisses, I was safe.

But after a month of being relieved that he hadn’t tried to kiss me, I started to feel ridiculous. I was dodging the affection of someone I actually liked, and the rational part of me wondered if he’d stick around long enough for me to fully come back to myself. 

So, that September Sunday, I decided that it was the day. We had planned to spend the day together watching football, during which I planned to execute Mission Kiss. I wish I could say I was giddy, but I actually just felt like throwing up a bunch of times. 

I arrived for the first game of the day, greeting Joe with our usual romantic hug. We soon found our comfortable spots on the couch and settled in to watch grown men smash into each other at full speed and stain their fitted pants bright green. 

That’s when it started. Weren’t you going to kiss him? Why aren’t you kissing him? IT’S TIME TO KISS HIM.

I quieted anxiety noise by voicing my own enthusiastic commentary on the game. Luckily, this was in no way revealing of my anxious thoughts. Joe had watched football with me before and was therefore aware of my compulsive tendency to scream at the TV like a sitcom dad. 

But it persisted. Where will you put your hands? What if you wait too long and it’s too dark and you can’t see his face? What if he thinks you’re bad at it and dumps you right there? WHAT IF YOU FORGET HOW TO KISS?

By mid-afternoon, I was indeed fully convinced that I no longer knew how to kiss. My muscle memory and physiological instincts would offer no assistance. I would kiss and fail, and this relationship would be over. Embarrassment would literally kill me. At the end of the night I would be for real dead. 

We got pizza to accompany Sunday Night Football. I forced down a square or two, fully accepting that it may come right back up. I focused intently on every pass and penalty and fumble, all the while feeling that the hum of impending doom was audible. 

While spooning quietly on the couch, Joe ran his finger down my arm. My eyes widened. He softly rubbed my back. I gulped. Was it now? Should I prepare? WHAT DO YOU DO WITH YOUR LIPS WHEN YOU KISS? His hand settled back on my hip, and I gasped in relief. 

As the fourth quarter ticked down, my heart did its best to jump ship, thumping aggressively against my chest. Remnants of our pizza churned and rose in my throat. My forehead felt fuzzy, my eyes starting to blur. The game clock read 0:00. 

It’s late, he said. I knew. It was time. I gathered my keys and phone, hands shaking. He held open the front door, revealing the tunnel of darkness that would inevitably lead to my death. The steps toward my car were slow. Breathing was work. 

Arrival at the car was no respite. My hand met the outside of the car window, stabilizing my stumble. I spun toward him, feeling his warmth radiating, pulling me in. I blinked hard, forcing my brain back into focus.

Stars glistened in the fall sky. Standing chest-to-chest, face-to-face, eye-to-eye, I fumbled my keys, just like Hitch taught me. It was dark, but I could still see him staring.  At me. Into me. Panic rose like the tide.  

He leaned in. I leaned away. Then I giggled. I laughed. I actually laughed. In his face. Immediately, I clapped my hand over my mouth, as though I could retract my mania. But I could already see the hurt in his glowing blue eyes. That hurt turned to confusion as I spewed out a rambling apology followed by an incoherent explanation. It’s not about you! I pleaded, sounding like the worst iteration of “it’s not you, it’s me” in the history of all the world. 

I haven’t kissed a lot of guys and I haven’t dated anyone in a long time and I’ve been so anxious I don’t even feel like myself and I really like you and I want to kiss you but I can’t kiss you because I’m too stressed about it even though it’s just a kiss and that’s not a big deal and I actually just want to get it over with but also I want to do it because I really like you. Does that make sense? 

He gently put a hand on my shoulder. Why don’t we go for a walk? He suggested.  

Yes, let’s walk. 

He kindly granted me silence as we winded through the neighborhood, pausing only once to ask how I was doing. The movement was therapeutic, and I felt parts of my body return. I thought that perhaps this was just what I needed, the missing ingredient to calm my system. But as we rounded the corner that led back to the house, the tide came back in. Terror materialized. Expectation hung in the air. 

We traveled right back to the spot beside my car, the spot where I had laughed in the face of a man leaning toward me in vulnerability. Tears welled. Fingers fisted. Breathing labored. 

He gently put a hand on my shoulder. Why don’t I take the garbage cans down to the end of the driveway? He suggested. 

Yes, you do that. 

Resting back against the cool metal of my car door, I gulped in air. I closed my eyes and whispered aloud to myself: just kiss him just kiss him just kiss him just kiss him just kiss him. 

I was still reciting when Joe made it back to me. I stared at him and tried another apology: It’s seriously not about you at all. I’m not myself right now, and I feel all weird and I don’t know what to do about that. He blinked at me. 

Can you just kiss me? I said. He started to answer. No, just kiss me. I insisted. 

He leaned in. I leaned in. Our lips met in a brief peck. It was not magical. Zero sparks flew. 

And we said nothing else. As I climbed into my driver’s seat, he reminded me to text him when I got home safely. As soon as my tires hit the end of the driveway, I sobbed. The sobs didn’t stop until I made it to my bed, and I got a text back from Joe: 

I know you have a lot going on right now. I really like you and us so far.
I think you’re an amazing person and tonight didn’t change the way I feel. 

Swoon with me, will you? I mean, COME ON. At this point I was nearly a stranger to this guy. He knew some things about me, but he didn’t know me. He didn’t know that this reaction was truly abnormal, and that I was genuinely drowning in mental illness. He couldn’t trust that I actually liked him, when my words and behaviors didn’t seem to match. But, despite all these unknowns, he stayed. He waited. He endured. 

Later, he’d tell me that he acted the way he did that night because he “wasn’t ending the date without getting his kiss.” But Joe didn’t stay because he wanted to kiss me. He didn’t even stay because he liked me. He stayed because he couldn’t imagine doing anything else. He stayed because that’s who he is. 

He didn’t love me yet, but that night he showed me how he loves. And that made me fall for him.